


We Were Gods

by FantasticNumberNine



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan, crossover - Fandom
Genre: #Couldn't Stop Myself, #Hadn't Seen It Yet, #Of Sorts, AU, And Carl Powers, Crossover, Gen, My First Work in This Fandom, Olympus!Lock, Prologue, Vague Mentions Of PG Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 10:02:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FantasticNumberNine/pseuds/FantasticNumberNine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boys (and Irene) take their first steps as the children of  Greek and Roman gods. Monsters are stirring, and the board is being set. Sherlock and company are demigods as per Rick Riordan's rules. Set some time after the Heroes of Olympus series, obviously in an alternate universe, and before Sherlock and John meet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Were Gods

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all, and welcome to my first Sherlock fanfic! This ought to be interesting, if only because I've gone and thrown the lads (and lady) into the setting of a children's novel about demigods. I believe I managed to make everyone's godly parent clear, and didn't that take ages of decision making! I have very well thought out reasonings for my choices, but I'm open to all opinions and discussions--so long as they are intelligent, "because it's cool" only goes so far in most (all) arguments.

In The Beginning

He was seven years old when his mother sent him away. He was told it was too dangerous for him and Sherlock to stay together--one of them would surely kill the other, and with more than five years on little brother, Mycroft was quite cognizant of just who would emerge victorious.  
He'd been kicked out of his home to protect his not-quite two year old brother.  
Unnecessary; he'd never harm Sherlock--despite what his father had had to say on the subject. Mycroft had not met his father, not really, but he'd listened from the hall (even taking a quick peak to see him). From his quick glance he'd known that the man speaking to his mother was Sherlock's father, and, from what he'd overheard, a different version of his father. Which made little sense.  
Mycroft was more than intelligent, but he was still seven years old, and while he had been told growing up that his father was a powerful, and very feared, roman god, he had always been skeptical--the roman pantheon was labeled as mythology for a reason. He had assumed the story had been invented to cover a less interesting truth, a fantasy to ease his life sans father figure, like his mother's insistence on leaving out cookies for Santa Claus on Christmas Eve night. And it seemed to run in the family--Grandfather had gone on and on about his 'affair of minds' with the Greek goddess of wisdom, resulting in his mother's birth. Which was absurd, Athena was one of the virginal goddesses, and he knew enough to know that meant she couldn't have children. Assuming she actually existed.  
But now he was alone. His mother had told him to dress warmly--it was late October, and autumn was particularly cold this year--and then she'd given him a backpack (presumably filled with useful supplies) and a bus ticket to Sonoma, California.  
"Go to Jack London's home, Mycroft. Find Lupa, she will guide you to your new home. If you are lucky, your father may answer your prayers."  
Which had sounded like so much rubbish, even as he'd stepped off the bus in Sonoma, he'd never prayed in his life. Then something moved in his peripheral vision, and, turning, he reconsidered.  
"Father--I don't know who you are. I don't even truly believe you exist. But if you do, now would be a prefect time for us to meet."  
Then the beast leapt.

Three Years Later

Greg half carried their new friend--companion--up the hill, the tree they'd been told to reach just ahead. All they had to do was reach it. Course, the satyr had also mentioned a friendly dragon, and he couldn't see one, friendly or not. If this was a prank, it was in poor taste. "Get past the tall pine and you'll be safe!" Maybe safe meant getting eaten by an invisible, friendly, dragon. Between that and the hellhounds Seb was fighting behind them, he was sure which he preferred. Dragon's breakfast or hellhound's chew toy?  
Gods, but the hill was steep! The gashes in his arm bled sluggishly, but the bite in--what had he said his name was? Applebey? Something... They'd been more concerned with running than names. Anderson. He was almost certain--Anderson's leg was slowing him down.  
He heard their satyr guide fighting alongside Seb behind him. Greg hoped they made it; after their hellish journey, dying at the very end of it would be severely unfair.  
Several huge gusts of wind slapped him--and Anderson--back a few steps just as a wounded cry sounded behind them. Greg whipped himself around, throwing Anderson the last few steps toward the tree. Their satyr guide had thrown himself between Seb's back and a hellhound to have its' massive jaw chomp on his furry waist.  
"No!"  
Unsure who had screamed, Greg pulled out his sword and, forgetful of his own injuries, ran down the hill as Seb turned and slashed at the hellhound. A deafening roar threw both boys off their feet, and the much talked about dragon swooped down to rip apart the last of the hounds. Struggling to his feet, Greg joined Seb as he held their dying friend.  
Voices sounded around them, other half-bloods, probably, but Greg didn't really see them. He watched as their guide--who had never had an opportunity to introduce himself--died in Seb's arms, turning into a pine sapling.  
When he met Seb's eyes, he shuddered. His friend had hardened along their journey here, and the look in his eyes suggested that this was perhaps the last person he could stand to lose.

Several Years Later

Three years had passed since he had arrived at Camp Half-Blood with Greg and Anderson (there had never been a first name for Anderson. Probably too embarrassing). Three years of knowing instinctively that--despite being among other half-bloods--he didn't belong here.  
He hadn't been claimed, which was almost unheard of these days, so he lived with Greg in the Hermes cabin. No one knew why he hadn't been claimed, he'd be an ideal son of Ares.  
But.  
There was a wrongness in being in a camp full of Greek demigods. And the feeling nagged and nagged him.  
And then there was the Roman Thursday. And increase in monster attacks had provoked a troupe of Romans into visiting the camp to discuss possible "why's" and "what-not's" of the situation.  
Seb had heard about the Roman's. Not much of it was flattering. But when they came, and he met them, he knew. He didn't belong at Camp Half-Blood because he wasn't Greek. He couldn't be claimed here, because his godly parent wasn't Greek.  
Without a word to anyone, when the Romans left, Seb followed after. Meeting Lupa was like coming home. Another year later, after he'd earned his first stripe, he was proud of the symbol of Bellona that showed above it.

One Year Later

John had been born and raised in New Rome, a Legacy of Apollo and Bacchus. He had trained his whole life--all eleven years of it--to join the 12th Legion, Fulminata, and today his training was about to pay off. Particularly gifted in the healing arts, he was also one of the most promising archers New Rome had seen since Frank Zhang.  
And he was excited. Of course, just as he stepped forward to take his place among the Legions, all hell broke loose as the alarm sounded--someone, something, was attempting to cross the Little Tiber.  
Just his luck, really. His sister clapped his shoulder as everyone ran--in an orderly, Roman fashion--towards the river. There had been more and more attacks of late.  
"Maybe tomorrow, John."  
And then she was gone. Another hand landed on his shoulder, looking up, way up, was the stern face of Mycroft Holmes, son of Pluto. He thought he managed to repress a shudder, though by Holmes's look, he'd not done such a good job of it.  
"Stay with Moran. Whatever your sister says, you are part of my Legion now, official or not."  
Moran seemed put out about babysitting an eleven year old, but was quickly impressed by John's shooting. He'd bagged a gorgon who'd been intending to grab a scrawny, dark haired boy, who was too preoccupied staring at the river to defend himself. John followed Moran over a bridge, shooting anything that came their way as they ran to the very frustrated boy who had still yet to turn away from the water.  
It was only after a huge wave rose from the Little Tiber, wiping away the remaining monsters, and they'd all gathered around their newest recruit--a jumped-up ten year old son of Neptune--that. John realized something was wrong.  
His left arm was heavy and his vision blurred. He didn't remember being shot at.

Another Year Past

To say the past year had been difficult would be a gross understatement. His arrival had nearly resulted in the death of John Watson, though, by some definition of fortunate, he had, ultimately, survived. He'd likely never be able to shoot a bow anymore, but that was hardly Jim's problem.  
His potential for making friends here seemed as likely as it had back among the mortals. That was to say, unlikely. He'd been accepted into a legion, but no one jumped forward to help him when he needed it--when he was being picked on. The worst he supposed was his inability to drown his tormentors--no one on the swim team had known about his affiliation with the Sea God, which had made the drowning of Carl Powers beautifully simple, if slightly accidental. He hadn't been aware either at that point.  
Perhaps he had spoken too soon. Sebastian Moran waded through his bullies as easily as. Jim had learned to swim, scaring them off. Then he offered Jim a hand.  
"I'll say one thing for the Greeks: I've never seen 'em shun or beat on someone just for being unexpected. We're a bit set in our ways as Romans."  
His gaze wasn't pitying, or even kind. Jim appreciated that. He also knew Moran was friends--of a sort--with Watson, and was relied on by Holmes. He wondered how long it would take him to change that. Or, at least, use it to his advantage.  
He took the offered hand and stood up, dusting himself off.  
"I'll get them back."  
Moran, he found, grinned like a shark.

One More Year Later

Irene sat with Jim at every meal. At first it had been for the shock factor--even Sebby only sat with him on occasion. Understandable. He seemed to be ally-gathering. What for, she had no idea, but she found it amusing. He had found her presence irritating at first--she could tell--but he had grown accustomed to her. Tentatively, she decided they were friends. On occasion Anthea would join her (they were half sisters and best friends after all). Her favorite meals were few and far between, when their esteemed Praetor, and former Centurion Leader of their Legion, the mysterious Mycroft Holmes joined them. He might be five years her senior, likely played for the other team--as she thought she did too--but he was the cleverest, most interesting, unreadable demigod in New Rome. And that was always worth pursuing. But later. When their age difference was a tad less criminal. For now she could play with Jim.  
And that pretty daughter of Mercury in the Fifth Legion.

Two Years Later

When Sherlock had been a child, his older brother had run away from home. Because of him, he'd thought. A reasonable reaction, encouraged by his mother. Well. He was better off without an overbearing older brother anyways. And older brother who--in all likelihood--had run off in a fit of jealousy when he'd discovered his younger brother had a god for a father (a far more impressive claim than simply having one as a grandmother. He wondered is she had attended any of his brother's birthdays before he'd run off. Probably not).  
Something exploded and he was jerked from his thoughts. Ah, so that's what happened when--  
"Holmes!"  
He rolled his eyes and let Lestrade rip him a new one--as he'd been doing every day since Sherlock had arrived at camp four years previous.  
"--Supervision!"  
"Molly."  
He didn't mind Molly. She was mildly clever--he'd expected a bit more from a daughter of Athena, but he'd come to learn how little a godly parent affected the brain function of the everyday variety of half-blood. To be fair, Lestrade was also a good... Friend? Person, to have on his side (even if he was rather dim). Children of Hades took their allies where they could; a shame Lestrade was usually followed around by Sally and Anderson, the least tolerable people he'd yet had the misfortune to know. Perhaps they'd leave soon, when Sally turned eighteen. Though, Lestrade was still here, and he must be twenty or thereabouts now. But then, Lestrade obviously had a slight masochistic streak, what with a cheating fiancé and his genuine fondness for teaching children that closer resembled monsters than demigods. And his habit for sticking up for Sherlock.  
"Greg! The Roman delegation's arrived!" Sally--speak of the harpy... Wait, Greg? Who was Greg?

**Author's Note:**

> Oh yes.  
> Please note, Sherlock does not belong to me--though, to paraphrase a brilliant man, I do believe he belongs to all of us as the fans who keep the story alive.  
> Nor does the demigod world created by Rick Riordan. 
> 
> Any errors in spelling and/or grammar are to be blamed on your neighbor.


End file.
